


The things we keep to ourselves

by Carbon65



Series: Graceland snapshots [4]
Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: Diabetes, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Hypoglycemia, Lies, hiding an illness, low bloodsugar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a not-feeling feeling, like white noise in his body. It’s easier to lie to himself, and say that it’s nothing than to face the consequences of his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things we keep to ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> For the H/C Bingo round 5 prompt, "Hypoglycemia/Low Bloodsugar"
> 
> Obviously, the way each person experiences and treats hypoglycemia is different. Mike's experience and approach may or may not be your approach. I've tried to go by the rules I was taught when I was diagnosed (15/15), rather than the way I currently treat (Sugar? Yes.)

It’s a not-feeling feeling, like white noise in his body. It’s easier to lie to himself, and say that it’s nothing than to face the consequences of his actions.

Maybe, it’s just a storm brewing over the ocean, where the dark clouds are gathering. It’s the kind of day that dawned sunny, but watched clouds accumulate as the harsh sun moved across the sky. Soon, the air will be pregnant with rain.

Maybe, it’s the knowledge that there’s a family holiday only a few days away. His mom, Kelzie, his numerous aunts and uncles and cousins and their spouses and second cousins once removed (or whatever you call the kids of your cousins) will gather to celebrate his grandparent’s anniversary with crabs and beer and rye bread. The phone will get passed from person to person, and they will tell him how much they miss him. And then, he will lie about needing to stay to finish a report, because he went west under the guise of a desk job.

Maybe it’s that residual fear that Paige and Jessica will find out about each other. Even though they already have. And, he’s lost both of them. He could have gone back east with Jessica. He could have rescued Lina. He didn’t, and now they’re both gone.

And maybe it’s the fear that they’ll find out about Rose, who is at UCLA doing ... whatever the fuck Rose does. Rose, who has had this damn disease since she was a child and hasn’t decided if she wants to keep living or just die already. It would be bad if Paige and Jessica knew about Rose. Because there’s only a small step between finding out about Rose... and finding out about him.

His head starts to ache with the bass beat of Johnny’s music. He really needs to be more careful about whose car he take for these runs.

Or maybe it’s the sun. The California sun and the east coast sun are different. Back east, growing up, the sun was hot and it would burn, but you had to go out of your way. You had to spend a day outside, deliberately tempting fate. Here, home, the sun will burn you as soon as glance your way.

Maybe he’s just dehydrated. He never used to get hungover, he could drink for hours. But, he’s not twenty and a Frat boy, anymore. And, it’s been a while since he had that much beer. Maybe the alcohol just caught up to him.

His body thrums against the movement of the car, so all his muscles vibrate to the beat. The movements are tiny, too small to see, but he’s running on edge.

Maybe he’s just nervous. Markham is a lynch pin. Markham is key. He needs Markham running scared, not the other way around.

Maybe he’s just energized. Maybe it’s just adrenaline.

Maybe it’s just a low...  
No. It’s not a low. Not here, not now. Not now.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, and even his lungs seem to vibrate.

He moves his arm to rest against the hot metal of the truck. It takes more effort than it should. His muscles are weak, weak, but thrumming. He feels like he could run away from a lion. Except that he’d probably trip and fall and die before he got five feet. Weak, but thrumming.

“Briggs?” His voice cracks, like he’s a damn 13 year old. “Briggs,” he tries again. “Briggs, can we stop for food?”

“You just ate, Warren. You had breakfast like, an hour ago.”

No, no he hadn’t. He’d been ready to eat. He hadn’t been hungry, but he’d been prepared. Some of Jakes’ now unlabeled milk, and that leftover chicken and rice. He’d dosed for it. Of course he’d dosed for it, upstairs, in the privacy of his bathroom where he kept all that shit, now. Well, all that shit except the stuff in the pocket of his shorts. Insulin, spare tips, lancet, meter, strips. There’s supposed to be sugar there, too, but Johnny had discovered it. And, there was no way to convince Johnny that the candy had been intended for a higher purpose than his stomach. Damn Johnny and his sweet tooth.

“I didn’ get ta ea’” He manages to get the words out. “Can we jus’ stop.” The s’es whistle and elide into each other. “Even jus’ a coke, Briggs.”

The men in the front turn to look it him.

“Levi, what’s wrong? You’re lookin’ whiter than usual.” Johnny has a talent for stating the obvious. “And that’s something considering how you can make Casper look tan.”

“Warren, you okay?” Briggs is more direct.

“I jus’ needs some dam’ foo’.” It’s hard to sound forceful when your voice is trembling and cracking.

They pull into a gas station. He fumbles with the door handle. He falls out of the car.

“Easy there, Mikey.” Johnny is a bit more of a mother hen than Briggs, but at least it’s not Charlie. Charlie is a fucking Mama Bear.

He stumbles into the store, eyes searching wildly for what he needs.

His hands don’t wanna work right.

There’s Coke, and Pepsi and some off-brand cola. It’s got a pretty label: a stylized pin up girl with blonde curls and the kind of chest that could double as a pillow. He misses having a pillow, like that.

Paige... Paige doesn’t count. Paige has ‘em, and they’re good, but they’re not his, not really. They’re on loan. And, Paige doesn’t like him resting his head on her chest so he can hear her heartbeat. Which is probably good, ‘cause she’d be more likely to find out if she did.

He misses Jessica...  Jessica doesn’t know, either, though. She just thought he’s got some kind of sensitive stomach. Not good for a field agent, but not enough to keep him chained to a desk. ... He doesn’t know how so many Feds can miss something so obvious. He still wants to be in the field, damn it. But, maybe the rules are there for a reason?

His hand is starting to get cold. He shakes his head, like a dog trying to stake off water. He picks up a bottle. He grabs a packet of peanut butter crackers. He finds the candy shelf. The colored roll looks familiar. And candy is cheaper than tabs.

He walks up to the counter. He shoves a bill at the teenager behind the register. He fumbles with his purchases. The bottle is big, but the crackers are slippery. They crumble under his fingers. Finally, he gets a hold of them. He walks out with tripping. He considers it a victory.

Rose, who ... he can’t remember who Rose is except for long dark hairs on everything, and girls get fat, boys get skinny, and and little white scars... Rose ... Rose told him that things get worse before they get better. He’s pretty sure that’s the case. He shotguns the can of soda the way he used to shotgun beers in college. But, the shaking doesn’t stop. it just gets more pronounced. He’s pretty sure Briggs and Johnny can see. He’s pretty sure the bank robber they’re meeting will be can see. He’s pretty sure the damn astronauts in space can see him shaking.

That night, Johnny comes to his room first. Johnny doesn’t knock well, just taps at the door and then enters.

He’s working on a report. The glass bottle, still out from dinner, is on his desk with the short, disposable plastic syringe. He hasn’t thought to put them away. There’s no way the syringe came from any drug kit. Well, it could have, but most of what he’s seen in kits have been glass with long needles to pierce veins.

“What the fuck happened today?” Johnny flops on his bed, managing to rumple the covers expertly. “That was fuckin’ scary, man.”

He sweeps the incriminating bottle and needle into a drawer. “Nothing man. I was sick last night. Bad fish. I threw up, thought I was fine this morning. Just got a little dehydrated, I guess.”

“Damn, you must be the quietest puker I know.” God bless Johnny’s trusting nature. Johnny Tuturro isn’t stupid, not by a long shot, but if you’re one of the good guys, he’ll take your word at face value. “I hope you feel better.” He gets off the bed. “You wanna come down and watch a Western with me, Levi?”

“Thanks, I got work to do.” He thumps the report. “Maybe later.”

Johnny shakes his head. “I almost miss when you were clogging my DVR with that shit for Bello, man.”

“I missed you, too, Johnny.”

Outside his door, he hears muffled footsteps and quiet voices. Briggs, coming to check on him. Johnny, trusting Johnny, repeats his story about the bad fish. And, Briggs buys it. Maybe because its easier to believe that Mike would get food poisoning than anything else.

Just like it’s easier to believe that Mike is a good guy.   
Just like it’s easier to believe that Lina escaped.   
ust like it’s easier to believe that they will catch Solano.   
Just like it’s easier not to let yourself doubt.

 


End file.
